Awake
by levele3
Summary: "Why was it called "a wake" John felt more asleep than ever..." Spoilers for season two, post-Reichenbach.
1. Awake

**A/N: **This is my first Sherlock fic. It is based on BBC's Sherlock, I do not own him or any other characters. If you have not yet seen season (or series) two there are spoliers ahead, ye have been warned! Events are post-Reichenbach. I switch the POV's quite often and some events will be re-accounted by different characters. Please read, review, and enjoy! Thank you.

Awake 

Why was it called "a wake" John felt more asleep than ever, as if all the events of the past few days had all been a dream. John felt as though he was moving in

slow motion. He had had this feeling for the past few days now, ever since the day...the day of the fall. His brain wouldn't even let him comprehend what had

happened. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Sherlock fall again and again.

John was sitting in his favourite chair in the living room of 221B Baker Street, a small group of people milled around him. DI Gregory Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson,

Molly Hooper, Angelo, Mike Stamford, and John's sister Harriett that was all John could think of to invite over after the funeral. He had thought about Mycroft,

but then remembered it was partly Mycroft's fault Sherlock was dead. He had also considered Sgt. Sally Donavan, but she too was partly to blame. At the

service Anderson had muttered something along the lines of "good riddance" and John had punched him until he felt the man's nose break and bruises began to

form around his eyes. No one had dared interfered and no one questioned his actions.

Mycroft had been at the funeral, it was an open service and no one would have stopped him from coming to his own brother's farewell. John had been the one

to receive the handshakes and condolences. Many of Sherlock's homeless friends had attended and while John recognized most of them there was one man in

particular he did not know. The man was tall and while his coat was considerably shabby he had what appeared to be a brand new deerstalker upon his head.

John had almost laughed, God how Sherlock had hated those hats. The man's face was completely covered by a bushy moustache and long unkempt beard. The

way the man walked convinced John he was drunk, but when he shook John's hand it was firm and steady, and when he spoke John could smell no alcohol.

"He was a good man, that Sherlock Holmes, shame 'bout his being a fake an' all." The accent was heavy.

"He wasn't a fake" said John with more conviction then he felt. John had hopped no one would bring that up today, least of all a bum.

"You seem awfully sure 'bout that." The man stared at him from beneath the brim of the ridiculous hat piercing something deep inside John.

"I am, and nothing you or anyone else says can change my mind." This time John conveyed his belief fully "Sherlock Holmes is the best man I've ever known, and no one could ever replace him."

"Was" said the stranger as he turned to leave, "Sherlock Holmes _was_ the best man you have ever known, and no one _will_ ever replace him." The stranger had mumbled the last part as he tried to get out of the small church and as far away from John as he could.

* * *

><p>A hand on his shoulder pulled John from his memories. It was Molly.<p>

"John, you haven't touched your tea." It was true, the tea Mrs. Hudson had made him an hour ago sat untouched and ice cold on the little table beside him.

"Yes, well." was all John could muster of a reply. Everyone was watching him as if they expected him to say something more but he remained silent and began

looking around the flat. Yorick, as he so fondly referred to the skull on the Mantle, sat quietly starring at him refusing to say what they were both thinking.

Without getting up to look John knew a small vigil of the Homeless network were outside the door of 221B. He had heard Mrs. Hudson refuse to let them in.

Slowly the small group departed, Mrs. Hudson heading down stairs with the promise of bringing him up some breakfast in the morning ("just this once dear").

Angelo letting him know he could still eat free at his restaurant anytime he liked. Molly told him "not to be a stranger" and to "come visit." John felt it would be

some time before he could return to Bart's, if he ever went back at all. He had no reason to go there now.

Each disappeared until only Harriett was left, she had been sober for three months now, but her brother's lack of emotion was enough to make her want to start

drinking again. She half expected her brother to start knocking things over, punching the wall, swearing, anything at all to make the silence go away. But he sat

in the chair, unmoving, unspeaking, where it not for his steady breathing and the rare flick of an eye she would think him dead as well. At ten pm she rose to

leave, as she walked passed John he cast out his arm and wrapped her wrist in his hand, "don't leave me." He turned his head to face her and their eyes met,

"please" he begged, "don't leave me as well. I can't! I can't stand the damn silence of this place."

His eyes shifted to the violin unwillingly left out of its case by its careless owner. By an owner that would never return to put it away. The coffee mug on the

desk, almost five days old, still half filled with coffee by someone who left in a hurry. Unopened cartons of cigarettes sat next to unopened packages of quit

smoking patches on one corner of the desk. The yellow smiley face on the wall mocked John from where he sat and John had the urge to get up and punch it,

but he remained seated, hand still clasped to Harry's wrist. He looked back up into his sister's eyes and she saw they were filled with tears.

"I won't" was all she could reply before breaking into tears herself.

* * *

><p>It had been a month since Sherlock's death. It was not suicide, John refused to refer to it as such, and if anything it was murder. Sherlock had been murdered<p>

by Jim Moriarty, and his brother had given Moriarty the tools to do it.

John had been to the grave everyday in that month, rain or shine. Sometimes he went with Mrs. Hudson, sometimes with Harry, mostly he went alone. He

would spend hours sitting there leaning against the gravestone talking to Sherlock, or ignoring him. He assumed this was what it was like for Sherlock when

John wasn't home but continued talking to him anyway. Sometimes John would bring Yorick along too, sometimes he'd bring Sherlock's violin and try to play it.

He kept telling himself to go take lessons so that the fine instrument would not go unused.

Today John came with Molly. Molly had called him out of the blue and asked him if he would go with her to Sherlock's grave. John had half expected her to call

sooner, or to have run into her there as she had been so found of him. They stood together, side by side at the grave, close enough to be touching but not

actually touching. John thought Molly would cry but she seemed to be doing fine.

Molly didn't know what to do. It had been awful not seeing John come visit her at Bart's, almost as bad as not seeing Sherlock. They had always made her day

better even if it meant missing a date or not seeing her girlfriends. They were always up to something, trying to solve a case, or just doing crazy experiments.

She hated seeing John a broken man, she longed to tell him the truth. That his best friend was alive, was safe, and would eventually come back to him. She had

promised Sherlock she would tell John nothing, and her constant love for Sherlock allowed her to keep that promise, that he had trusted her with something so

important gave her the strength she needed.

Lost in her thoughts Molly remembered the last conversation she had had with Sherlock.

"Do you think you can do that Molly, for me?" He had asked her for the tenth or so time. He knew she would do anything for him and so used it to his advantage.

"Yes" she assured him, "yes of course. I'll miss you though."

"I know." He had said, and he did, of course he did he was Sherlock Holmes. He knew how much she cared, how much she would miss him. "Look after John for me, will you?" he said it as though he was only going on holiday for a few days and she would have to feed and walk his dog while he was away.

"Of course" she said with a little bob of her head.

He had hugged her then, a full on hug, his arms tightly embracing her body, when he pulled away he kissed her right on the lips. It didn't last long, but it was

long enough for Molly. When she had opened her eyes again he was already gone, nothing but the door swinging shut behind him, proved Sherlock had been

there at all. That was the only time she had cried. It was what she had thought about at the funeral to make the tears come, although one look at John might

have done the same.

John. Molly had almost forgotten he was there. She turned to look at him, he was staring straight ahead at Sherlock's grave, only a solemn expression on his

face. Molly had the sudden urge to make John smile. She wanted to see him happy and enjoying life again. He had always been a bit of a lady killer, having a

new mate on his arm every couple of weeks; maybe she had a friend who would be interested. He is quite handsome, Molly told herself, and he was always so

kind the very opposite of Sherlock it would not be difficult to find an interested party.

Molly suddenly realised she had been staring at John for some time now, and her face grew warm at the thought. John was a much more compatible match for

her than Sherlock could ever be. All it took for her to see it was Sherlock not being there. Without Sherlock's shadow over him John suddenly shone brightly.

Then a new though crossed her mind, what if this was Sherlock's plan all along? Had this been what he meant by "look after John for me?" Was this his farewell

gift to her, to both of them?

Sherlock knew both her and John had a string of unsuccessful relationships perhaps he knew too that they might be able to make it work together and the only

way they would find each other was for him to be out of the picture.

John turned and looked at Molly, she was staring straight at him, had been for minutes now, and it was a bit unnerving. "Molly?" he asked "are you alright?"

John's voice suddenly pulled Molly out of all her deep thoughts. Was she "alright?" yes she was alright, in fact she doubted if she was ever better. But all she

replied with was a dazed "What? Oh, yes, fine thanks." Molly turned and looked once more at the black polished marble that was Sherlock's headstone which

marked an empty grave. She said a silent good bye to him as she took a deep breath and took John's hand in her own.

John felt Molly lace her fingers between his as they stood at Sherlock's grave. At first he thought she might just be doing it to comfort him, but somehow she

felt closer. He had never considered her as someone he might be interested in. Not that she wasn't pretty, because she was, and it could never bother him that

she worked at the morgue, like it might some other guys, she had always been friendly and helpful, but John accounted that to Sherlock's presence. Sherlock

that was the reason he would never had asked Molly out. While he had never shown much interest in her John knew her heart belonged to him and should

Sherlock ever change his mind John did not want to come between them.

John turned and looked at Molly again and without really thinking about what he was doing he kissed her, a long warm wonderful kiss.

Molly figured the last place she would ever be kissed would be in a cemetery, but there was a beautiful irony of being kiss by Dr John Watson at the grave of

Sherlock Holmes.

As John stood there at the feet of his best friend, holding hands with and kissing Molly Hooper, he suddenly felt more awake than he had in the past month.


	2. Alive

Alive

Sometimes all one needed to feel alive was to have died. For most people it would have been a surreal experience to visit their own grave, but not for Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes was not most people and went to extremes to prove this.

"It's time to go." Said Mycroft at Sherlock's shoulder, "Can't have you missing your flight now, can we?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and almost scoffed aloud Mycroft had the power to stop that plane from flying for days, but none the less, he was right, it was time to go. Sherlock walked forward and placed a single red rose at the base of the finely polished black marble that bared his name, then turned and followed his brother to the waiting limousine.

For three days after his death Sherlock Holmes had lived on the streets of London. On the fourth day he attended his funeral. Dressed in an old worn out jacket, and face donned with a fake moustache and beard, Sherlock snuck into 221B just after John and Mrs. Hudson left. Knowing the rout they would take, Sherlock calculated he would have just enough time to grab what he needed and still make it to the church on time. He dashed up the familiar steps and entered the sitting room. There were several things he wanted to fix, such as replace his violin in its case, grab his toothbrush, and pack a small bag up with his best clothes. All of this would have been impossible for while John was not as observant as himself he was smart in his own right and would notice such absences.

What Sherlock did grab was the two things that anyone who knew him would never think he would take. The first was the "hat with two fronts" it would work to cover the portion of his face still visible, and while he wouldn't be caught dead wearing it; he intended not to get caught at all. The second item Sherlock took with him was the phone. The phone that had belonged to Irene Adler.

At the funeral Sherlock had stood at the back of the small church with the rest of the homeless people who were in attendance. For someone who had "no friends" the church was tightly packed. John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade were all seated in the front row. John's sister sat in the row behind him next to Angelo, Sally Donavan, and Anderson sitting closest to the aisle. Other members of the police force were there too, as well as several clients. In the last row of pews in the darkest corner of the church sat Mycroft, dressed all in black hands around his favourite black umbrella. He looked paler than usual.

John had just delivered a very beautiful speech, with pauses in all the right places, and even a few jokes thrown in, a vain attempt to lighten the mood. Before leaving the podium John erected a framed picture of Sherlock, it was the stupid one of him from the papers with the stupid hat on. Mostly everyone clapped, they were all proud of John for overcoming his grief long enough to tell them what they already knew. Then something unexpected happened, John had pulled Anderson from his seat and began punching him in the face. Everyone was frozen in fear, no one so much as blinked. Sherlock absently rubbed his cheek where John had punched him in the face all those months ago. It was obvious Anderson had said something to enrage John and Sherlock felt a twinge of pride at John's constant show of loyalty.

After what seemed like forever John let Anderson slink to the ground and resumed his seat in the front row so that the service could be completed. Molly and Mrs. Hudson each read a short poem and Lestrade told the assembly how he had collected money from members of the force and donated it to a charity in Sherlock's name. This had made Sherlock feel sick, he was supposed to have died in disgrace, and here these people were honouring his memory the best way they knew how.

At the end of it all it was John who stood beside the closed casket and took sympathies with handshakes. Mycroft had snuck away when he thought no one was looking but of course Sherlock had noticed. Ah, brother dearest I've got a nice little surprise for you later, Sherlock thought to himself as he got in the growing line of mourners. Finally it was his turn to shake John's hand, and a new sensation took hold, fear. What if John recognized him? Maybe he would blame it on grief. This was the first time that attending his own funeral had sounded like a bad idea. Sherlock felt lightheaded and staggered slightly as he walked forward to say good bye.

Sherlock forced his voice to come out in an accent as he leaned forward and took John's had in his. "He was a good man, that Sherlock Holmes, shame 'bout his being a fake an' all." Sherlock could see instantly he had made a mistake bringing this up. John's eyes darkened and Sherlock thought thunder and lightning bolts might explode around them at any moment.

"He wasn't a fake" said John and the irritation in his voice was clear, even to Sherlock.

"You seem awfully sure 'bout that." He didn't know why he said it, he could have left by now, but part of him wanted to drive home the fact to John. He stared right at John when he said it, if not even John could recognize him in this hastily thrown together disguise then no one would. Except maybe Mycroft.

"I am, and nothing you or anyone else says can change my mind. Sherlock Holmes is the best man I've ever known, and no one could ever replace him." Sherlock swelled with pride at John's conviction. Fine, have it your way, but, no. Sherlock's heart dropped again, John had not referred to him the past tense.

"Was" Sherlock corrected him, "Sherlock Holmes _was_ the best man you have ever known" Sherlock turned and walked away and as he did he added under his breath "and no one _will_ ever replace him." He needed to get out of the small church and as far away from John as he could.

The morning after his funeral Sherlock arrived at his brother's house. Mycroft was still asleep but the doorman, Toby a young man in his twenties, had let Sherlock in and instructed him to wait in the parlour until "Master Holmes" was fit to receive company. As Sherlock watched Toby walk from the room he confirmed two suspicions he had had, Toby was indeed gay, and so too it appeared was Mycroft.

Sherlock had to wait a full hour for his brother to finally enter the parlour through the door that led to the kitchen, evidently he had stopped for breakfast first.

"Now then Mr. Smith, Toby has told me you have a rather pressing issue and that you believe I may be able to assist you in some way." Typical Mycroft, he hadn't even looked up as he entered the room. He continued walking forward shuffling through a stack of papers in his hands.

Sherlock cleared his throat, "Yes Mr. Holmes, you see I have reason to believe your brother is still alive."

Mycroft's head jerked up in a motion that was sure to cause at least a mild case of whiplash. He appeared to stare at his own reflection in the windows for a few seconds before spinning on his heel to face the man seated on his antique couch. When he finally faced Sherlock he was as white as a sheet.

"What's the matter brother, you look as though you've seen a ghost?" Sherlock said as he stood up and took several steps toward Mycroft.

"My God, is it really you?" Mycroft asked in disbelief.

"Yes." was Sherlock's simple reply.

"How ever did you manage it?"

"That is for me alone to know."

"Well you must return at once to Baker Street, tell Dr. John Watson, he blames me for your death you know."

"First of all I _must _do nothing, it is not yet safe for me to return to Baker Street, and second of all you cannot tell John, or anyone else that I live."

"Then why tell me."

"Because I need you." The words hurt to say, Sherlock had refused to admit that he needed anything from anyone, especially his brother and had gone to great lengths to ensure others their help was not needed. The truth of the matter was that Mycroft was the only person Sherlock knew who had enough power to do what he needed done.

Mycroft knew his brother did not ask for help lightly, and considering he had faked his own death it was clear Sherlock needed his brother's help more than ever.

"What do you need?"

It was the magic words. The two brothers retired to Mycroft's study immediately, with Mycroft giving instructions not to be disturbed for nothing less than London Bridge actually falling down.

It had taken almost a full month worth of planning but Sherlock was about ready to go into permanent hiding. It had took that long to get the false identity established, birth records, a passport, work statements, tax records, and school transcripts, even with Mycroft pulling the strings. Sherlock now had papers that proclaimed him to be a Mr. Hamish Smith, a Maths and Science instructor at London Central High School. This would be a passable disguise for Sherlock in his new life.

Walking back to the waiting limousine Sherlock remembered how he had also bullied Mycroft into writing up a will.

"You know most people write up wills before they die." Mycroft complained aloud not caring about Sherlock overhearing him.

"Yes, well I didn't have time now, did I?" Sherlock scoffed back. He was examining one of the many gold trophies that lined the wall of his brothers' study.

"And be careful with that" Mycroft demanded, not even needing to turn around to know his brother had picked something up.

Sherlock placed the statuette back on its shelf and made his way back over to Mycroft's desk.

"So, how do you wish to divide your possessions?" Mycroft asked, all business.

"Everything goes to John."

"What?"

"All of my books, case files, clothes, the skull, my violin, all of it is to be left to Dr. John Hamish Watson."

"And what is John going to do with all of your stuff? He's not likely to keep it. Without a flatmate he won't be able to afford Baker Street anymore."

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson won't make him move out right away, she'll give him some grieving time. Besides I intend to ensure he does not leave Baker Street, I also wish to leave John a large sum of money. Almost everything I have. I shall need quite a bit for myself, calculate how much you think I'll need to start my new life in Canada then will it to yourself."

"Myself? You're leaving me money that you are going to use?" Mycroft did not want to be dealing with his brother right now.

"Well I can't exactly make a withdrawal." He snapped back.

"Fine," he made a quick note on another sheet of paper, "anything else?" Mycroft put on his best fake smile.

"Yes, actually, I wish to leave a large sum to Mrs. Hudson as well." Sherlock announced while inspecting his fingernails for dirt. "Oh, and make sure John get's mummy's engagement ring, I think he'll be needing it sometime in the next year or so." Sherlock said in an offhand manner.

"Mummy's ring, but that was lost... NO! _You_ stole mothers ring?" Mycroft looked horrified.

"I didn't steal it,_ I_ saved it. I found the little urchins who stole it and made them give it back, mother knew all about it."

Mycroft still looked doubtful, but made a note of it anyway. He would personally go through all of Sherlock's possessions to make sure it was added to the inventory list.

"Anything else?" Mycroft asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

"Actually, no, I think that about covers it. Everything to John, money to Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft Holmes" Sherlock counted off on his fingers. Sherlock nodded his head in silent conformation. He had already give Molly a token of his gratitude and had sent a coffee mug to Lestrade's office reading "world's best boss." It was an anonymous gift, Lestrade would never know who it was from, and Sherlock would never tell him. Nor did Sherlock actually think of Lestrade as his boss, it was something of a "gag-gift" an idea that had amused Sherlock at the time.

Thinking about it now made Sherlock begin to laugh out loud uncontrollably, Mycroft who was waiting by the car door gave his brother a dirty look causing Sherlock to only laugh harder. Yes it was good to be alive.


End file.
